at dawn, helped bake the day's pastry, tended
the store, then swept it clean at night. He was
14, worked a 15-hour day, but always had
smiles and free cookies for his friends.
Today his father no longer owns the bak
ery. The government seized the store, assert
ing that Vlaho's father owed a million dinars
(then $2,500) in back taxes, which he denied.
Finally I found Vlaho. He had become lazy,
unkempt, and disillusioned.
Cities Swell as Farms Decline
The night before the Mestrovids and I
drove to Split from Dubrovnik, Ado, Miro,
and Romana had a party for us. We enjoyed
domestic salami, cheese, and Zilavka, a white
wine. I regretted leaving these cheerful
youngsters.
As we said good-night, Ado had a request:
"Will you photograph Romana for us? We
want to enter her in a beauty contest."
Later, Romana wrote to thank me. She
had been chosen Miss Yugoslavia (page 219).
Dubrovnik is a magnificent town, and Split,
its "neighbor" 145 miles north, is a beautiful,
bustling port, but the road between is a night
mare. Punctured tires, rutted gravel roads,
and dangerous blind curves combine with the
stifling heat and summer dust to dishearten
even the most venturesome tourist.
Except for isolated pockets of fertile soil
cradled in the valleys of towering mountains,
the geography of the Dalmatian Coast is stark
and awesome: bold mountains, dressed only
with sparse, burnt underbrush. Stone shells
of ghost houses and rock walls, interwoven
into small patterns across rocky fields, mark
the graves of dead villages. The farmers have
Konavlje Farmers Pitch Hay Before
a Towering Limestone Backdrop
Most Yugoslav farmers own their small
farms, usually split into scattered tracts.
Fewer than half own work animals and
fewer still, tractors.
Prosperous farmers of the fertile Konavlje
valley sell their vegetables, figs, grapes, and
wine in Dubrovnik. Good drainage saves
them from the overwhelming floods that
turn many such valleys into springtime
lakes. Ages of erosion have tumbled the
mountain soil into the lowlands.
Wooden canteen hangs from the belt of a
farmer sharpening his scythe. One of the
Konavlje dwellers, he displays the straight
and stalwart physique characteristic of these
hardworking people.
fled to the cities. Today only sheepherders
with their flocks seek shelter among the ruins
from the parching midday sun.
I recalled talking with Edo Jardas, then
president of the district council of Rijeka, a
city on the northern coast.
"Only about half the prewar peasant farm
ers remain in coastal villages," he told me.
"By the thousands they are moving to the
cities. Both Rijeka and Split are bursting at
the seams- as you would say." His eyes twin
kled when I smiled at idioms he had learned
while in Canada.
"My country is industrializing as quickly
as possible. We already have aluminum fac
tories, canning plants for our fisheries, heavy
duty diesel-engine factories, and coastal oil
refineries, as well as several shipyards with
huge capacities," he told me.
"Are those ships Yugoslav-designed?"
"You bet they are," he roared. "Only the
engines are from a foreign patent. But soon
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